Found (5 page)

A tear slid down her cheek.

“Why would Jared the prankster just vanish without having the last word?”

I swallowed. “I don’t know,” I said.

“Mickey?”

“What?”

“It is easy to make fun of these relationships. I used to do it too. But think about it. When it is just in writing like this, when it is just texts or e-mails, just your words and nothing else, it is actually more real. It doesn’t matter what you look like or what table you sit at during lunch. It doesn’t matter if you play quarterback or head up the chess club. All of that becomes irrelevant. It is just the two of you and your intelligence and your feelings. Do you see?”

“I guess,” I admitted.

“Listen to me, Mickey. Look at my eyes and really listen.”

I did. I looked into those eyes, and for a moment, I felt happily lost. I trusted those eyes. I believed in them.

“I know,” Ema said. “Don’t ask me how. But I know. We have to do this—even if you think I’m crazy.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not up to us,” Ema said.

“Huh? Of course it is.”

Ema shook her head. “These things come to us, Mickey. It’s bigger than we are.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

“What, you think this is Abeona?”

She moved closer to me so we could share the laptop. I smelled her perfume. It was something new, something different. I had smelled it before, but couldn’t place it. She pulled up Jared’s page again. “There has only been one new photograph added since Jared disappeared . . .”

When I saw the screen, I nearly gasped out loud.

There, on Jared Lowell’s page, was a photograph of a butterfly.

Again, to be more specific, the Tisiphone Abeona.

“We have no choice,” Ema said. “We need to find him.”

We sat there for another moment, staring at that butterfly. I smelled her perfume again and felt a small rush. I looked at her. She looked at me. Our eyes met. Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be said.

And then my cell phone rang.

Our eye contact broke as though it were a dry twig. Ema looked away. I looked toward the caller ID on my phone. The number was blocked.

“Hello?”

An adult male said, “Is this Mickey Bolitar?”

The voice was grave and serious and maybe there was a small quake of fear in it.

“Yes, this is he,” I said.

“This is Mr. Spindel, Arthur’s father.”

It took me a second to place the name, but when I did, I felt my pulse quicken. I always called Arthur Spindel “Spoon.” His father, the man on the phone, was the head custodian at Kasselton High School—and Spoon’s father.

“Is Spoon okay?” I said quickly.

Mr. Spindel didn’t answer that directly. “Do you know where Emma Beaumont is?”

Emma was Ema. “She’s right next to me.”

“Could you please both come to the hospital?”

“Of course. When?”

“As soon as possible,” Mr. Spindel said, and then he hung up.

Niles drove us
to Saint Barnabas Medical Center. He dropped us off at the front door. We sprinted to the reception desk in the lobby.

“Fifth floor,” the receptionist said to us. “The elevator is on your right. Look for the signs for the ICU.”

ICU. Spoon was still in the Intensive Care Unit. I felt my eyes well up, but I forced the tears back down.

We hurried to the elevator. I pressed the button repeatedly, as if that would somehow tell the elevator that we were in a rush. It took too long to arrive. We leapt in and of course three other people did too, all pushing for floors lower than ours. I wanted to yell at them to cut it out.

When we finally reached the fifth floor, Mr. Spindel was waiting for us. He was wearing the beige janitor uniform he wore at school, the words
MR. SPINDEL
stenciled on the right chest pocket. He was a wiry man with big hands and usually an easygoing way about him. There was no smile now.

“This way,” Mr. Spindel said.

As we followed him, Ema asked, “How is Spoo—I mean, Arthur?”

“No change.”

No change. The words hushed the corridor. When we last saw him, Spoon had no feeling in his legs. He was paralyzed below the waist.

No change.

Down the corridor I saw Mrs. Spindel sitting in a chair. I flashed to the first time I had seen her when I dropped Spoon off at his house a few weeks ago. She had greeted her son at the door with such pure joy. Her entire face had lit up as she hugged him. Now it was like someone had extinguished that light. Her cheeks were sunken. Her hair seemed grayer.

Mrs. Spindel gave me a baleful look. The last time I was here, she had told me in no uncertain terms that what happened to her beloved son was my fault. Clearly her opinion had not changed.

“My wife doesn’t think this is a good idea,” Mr. Spindel explained.

There was no need to comment on that.

We approached a big door.

“I’ll wait out here,” Mr. Spindel said. “You two go in.”

I pushed the heavy door open slowly. Spoon was sitting up in bed. There were tubes and machines and beeping noises. He looked tiny in that big hospital bed, this little skinny kid with the big glasses lost among all this horror.

When Spoon saw us, his face broke into a huge smile. For a second everything else in the room disappeared. There was just that big smile on the face of that tiny, doofy kid.

“Did you know,” Spoon began, “that Babe Ruth wore a cabbage leaf under his baseball cap?”

Ema and I just stood there.

“For real,” Spoon went on. “He’d wet it on hot days and it kept him cool. He changed it every two innings.”

I couldn’t help it. I lost it. I ran over to him and tried so hard not to cry. I’m not a crier by nature. But as I rushed over to Spoon, as I swept him as gently as I could into my arms, I could feel the tears push through my eyelids.

“Mickey?” Spoon said tentatively. “What the . . .”

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to hold it. I needed to be strong right now. I needed to be strong for Spoon. I was his big, tough friend. I remembered on the very first day we met how he’d said that I was Shrek to his Donkey. I was his protector.

And I had failed him.

It was no use. I started sobbing.

Spoon said, “Mickey?”

“I’m so sorry,” I said through the sobs. “I’m so sorry.”

“For what?”

I just shook my head and held on to him.

“For what?” Spoon asked again. “You didn’t shoot me, did you?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. So what are you sorry about?”

I let him go. I checked his face to see if he was just playing with me, but he looked genuinely baffled.

“It’s still my fault,” I said.

Spoon frowned. “How on earth do you figure that?”

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack,” Spoon said. He started laughing. “Man, I always wanted to use that line. Serious as a heart attack, except it really isn’t funny, I mean, not in here. Mr. Costo down the hall, he had a heart attack. That’s why he’s in the hospital. I met his wife. Nice lady. She went to elementary school with Tippi Hedren. You know, the old actress? From
The Birds
? Isn’t that something?”

I just looked at him. He smiled again.

“It’s okay, Mickey.”

I shook my head. “I got you involved in all this.”

Spoon pushed the glasses up his nose. “Really?”

I looked at Ema. She shrugged. I turned back to Spoon. “Are you putting me on?”

“No,” Spoon said. “And no offense, Mickey, but you’re kinda sounding full of yourself.”

“What?”

Spoon’s eyes met mine. “You’re not that powerful, Mickey. You didn’t make me do anything. I made my own choices. I’m my own man.” He looked at Ema and winked. “That’s why the ladies dig me, am I right?”

Ema rolled her eyes. “Don’t make me punch you.”

Spoon laughed at that. I just stood there.

“You weren’t the only one the Bat Lady chose,” Spoon said. “Sure, you’re our leader, I guess. But we’re a team. We are all a part of Abeona—you, me, Ema. Rachel too. Can we walk away from it? Well, I can’t. I mean, I really can’t. My legs aren’t working right now. But even if they were, I don’t think I could. And that has nothing to do with you, Mickey. You’re not to blame.”

“Wow,” I said.

“What?”

“You’re kind of making sense.”

Spoon arched an eyebrow. “I’m a constant surprise.” Another wink for Ema. “Another reason the ladies dig me.”

Ema made a fist and showed it to him. Spoon howled with laughter. When he finished, he spread his arms and said, “So?”

“So?” I repeated.

“So why do you think I told my dad I had to see you? We rescue kids. That doesn’t stop because I got hurt. So who do we need to rescue now?”

“Just rest,” I said. “You need to concentrate on getting better.”

Spoon frowned at me and looked toward Ema.

“A guy I met in a chat room,” Ema said to him.

“A boyfriend?” Spoon asked.

“Sort of.”

Spoon shook his head. “I get shot and you’re already on to a new guy?”

“I will hurt you,” Ema said.

Spoon pushed the glasses back up his nose again. “Tell me about him,” he said.

So she did. Spoon nodded. He never showed doubt. He never judged. He just listened. It made me wonder who indeed was the leader of this group. Ema was just finishing up when a nurse came in and told us it was time to leave.

“I have my laptop,” Spoon said. “I’ll get us everything I can on this Jared Lowell.”

I decided to
walk
home because I needed to see something.

I cut across Northfield Avenue and tried to clear my head. I made a right on the next corner. I had a destination in mind, even if, in a sense, it no longer existed.

Bat Lady’s house.

I know that I shouldn’t refer to her as that anymore. The Bat Lady was the name the town kids had given to the creepy, crazy old lady who lives in the creepy, crazy old house, the one that children whispered about and made up stories about and even genuinely feared.

The Bat Lady was not crazy. Or maybe she was, but either way, she was not what any of those kids ever imagined. In a way, the reality behind Bat Lady was even scarier.

The decrepit house that had stood for more than a century was barely more than ashes now. It had been burned down last week. I had been in the house at the time. I had barely escaped with my life. I still didn’t know why that man had tried to burn me alive. I had only met him once before.

He was the paramedic who told me that my dad was dead.

I stopped in front of the remains of the house. There was yellow tape surrounding it. I wondered whether that meant that this was a crime scene, if the authorities had figured out that this had been a case of arson, not merely fire.

I flashed back to the day it all started, just a few weeks ago. I had been walking to my new high school, minding my own business, strolling right past this very spot when the front door of the scary old house creaked open.

The Bat Lady had called out to me. “Mickey?”

I had never seen her before. I had no idea how she knew my name.

She pointed a bony finger at me and said the words that changed my life: “Your father isn’t dead. He’s very much alive.”

And then she vanished back inside.

I had thought that his casket would hold the answer. Instead it just led to more questions.

I stared at the remains of the house. Signs reading
CONDEMNED
and
PRIVATE PRO
PERTY—NO TRESPASSING
were everywhere.

So now what?

There were secret tunnels under the house. I wondered whether the fire had affected them. I doubted it. I tried to remember the last time—well, the only time—I had been in them. I knew that the entrance was by the garage, deep in the woods. I knew that they led to the house. I knew that there were other paths underground, a whole maze of them maybe.

Tunnels that had been closed off to me.

Was that all gone now? Or would there be clues down there?

I thought about working my way into the garage and searching for the tunnels, but, no, I couldn’t do that right now. For one thing, there were the various
KEEP OUT
–type signs. But more than that, there were neighbors out and about. A man mowed his lawn. A woman walked her dog. Two girls were drawing on a driveway with chalk. I debated circling around back, trying to find another way into those woods behind Bat Lady’s property, when I heard a sweet sound that always got my attention.

The tunnels would have to wait until the street was quiet.

Besides, someone was dribbling a basketball.

The sound called out to me. It worked like a mating call or something. I was drawn to it. The sound was soothing, engaging, comforting, inviting. If someone is dribbling a basketball and you want to join him, you are always welcome. It is part of the code. You could shoot around with someone or rebound for them or take winners. You didn’t have to know each other. You didn’t have to be the same age or the same sex or play at the same level. All that vanished when someone was dribbling a basketball.

As I drew closer, I could tell from the sound that it was someone practicing alone. Two dribbles. Shot. Two dribbles. Shot. By the speed of it, I’d say that the person was practicing low post moves. The sounds were too close together for outside shots. If you play the game, you’ll know what I mean.

When I turned the corner, I saw my team co-captain Brandon Foley taking hook shots in the key. I stopped and watched for a few seconds. He took three from the left, then three from the right, then back to the left. He made nearly every one. His face was coated in sweat. He was concentrating, focused, completely lost in the simple bliss of this drill, but there was something more here, something deeper and not so joyful.

“Hey,” I called out.

Brandon stopped and turned toward me. Now I could see that it wasn’t sweat coating his face.

It was tears.

“What are you doing here?” he asked me.

“I was just walking by when I heard the dribbling,” I said. “Look, I’m sorry about what I said after practice. I appreciate you reaching out like that.”

He turned toward the basket and started up his drill again. “Forget it.”

I let him shoot for another minute. There was no letup, no slowing down.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him.

Brandon dribbled outside and took a shot. The ball swished through the basket and started to roll away. Neither one of us went for it.

“It’s all falling apart,” Brandon said.

“What is?”

“All these years, all the different teams we played on together, all leading up to this season and now . . .” Brandon shrugged. “It’s all gone.”

I said nothing. I figured that this had something to do with what I had witnessed with Troy in the locker room, but I didn’t want to let on that I’d seen.

“Everything was going so well,” Brandon said. “We had all worked so hard and prepared and then, today, your very first day on the team and . . .”

He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t have to. His glare said it all.

“Wait, are you blaming me?”

Brandon turned back toward the basket and started shooting again.

“So what happened?” I asked him.

“Troy and Buck,” he said.

My two sworn enemies.

“What about them?”

“They’re both off the team.”

“What?”

Brandon nodded. “That’s right. Troy was our leading scorer. Buck was our best defender. Both gone.”

“Why?” I asked.

“What do you care?” He took another hook shot. “Heck, you’re probably happy. It clears two spots for you.”

I moved toward the basket. I grabbed the ball and held on to it. “I wanted to earn a spot,” I said. “I don’t want to get it because other guys drop out.”

Brandon looked off for a second. He let loose a deep breath and wiped his face with his forearm. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice softening. “I’m snapping at you, but I know this isn’t your fault.”

“So what happened?”

“Buck moved.”

“What? Now?”

Brandon nodded. “See, his parents got divorced when we were all in eighth grade. He’s lived with his father and brother, but now his parents decided he should be with his mom.”

“Just like that?” I asked. “During his senior year of high school?”

“I guess. I don’t know. I never heard a hint of it until today.”

Part of me was pleased, of course. I hated Buck, and Buck hated me. But this somehow didn’t feel right. “So that’s why Buck wasn’t at practice,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“And Troy?”

Brandon put up his right hand, inviting me to throw him the pass. I did. He grabbed the ball in his outstretched hand, took one dribble, and dunked it hard through the hoop.

“He’s been suspended for the season,” Brandon said.

“For what?”

“Steroids.”

My mouth dropped open in surprise. “He failed a drug test?”

“Yes.”

“Wow,” I said, but now I understood what I had witnessed in the locker room. Coach Grady must have just given him the news.

“Troy swears he’s never taken anything like that,” Brandon said. “He says he’s being set up.”

I remembered hearing him claim that in the locker room. “How could that be?”

“I don’t know.”

“And who would do that?” I asked. “I mean, the testing all seems pretty much on the up-and-up.”

“I know,” Brandon said.

Brandon threw me the ball. I took a shot. “Do you believe Troy?” I asked him.

Brandon grabbed the rebound, threw me the ball. I took another shot, waiting for his answer. He seemed to be chewing over the question.

“Troy is a lot of things,” he said. “I know he can be, well, rough around the edges. I even know that he can be a bully. But a liar? A drug cheat?”

We both stopped and looked at each other.

“Yeah,” Brandon said, “I know it’s crazy, but I believe Troy.”